


In the Quiet of the Night, I Hear Your Heart Calling for Me

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sherlock Holmes decides to retire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Quiet of the Night, I Hear Your Heart Calling for Me

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://nox-candida.livejournal.com/profile)[**nox_candida**](http://nox-candida.livejournal.com/)'s prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post.
> 
> For [](http://nox-candida.livejournal.com/profile)[**nox_candida**](http://nox-candida.livejournal.com/) , who asked for song #777, which was “Madame de Pompadour” from the _Doctor Who_ soundtrack by Murray Gold.

There was no sound in the room except for the steady, insistent beep of John’s heart monitor and the gentle hush of the ventilator. And there were no sounds more precious to Sherlock than those sounds, counting out each of John’s heartbeats and breaths. He had come so close to not ever hearing those again, and the mere thought of that still sent shivers down his spine.

He stood and stretched, joints protesting at the lack of movement as he walked, slightly unsteadily, to the window and twitched aside the slats to peer out into the dark London night.

He had been here for six days. Six days of not hearing John’s laugh, of not drinking John’s tea, of not feeling John’s body next to his as they curled around each other in sleep. It was unbearable. His skin felt like it didn’t fit⎯it was too tight and everything was too loud, too bright without John there to temper the world.

He looked back at John, lying so still and quiet in the hospital bed, the linens drawn partway up his chest. There were IVs and monitors everywhere, enough that Sherlock had to carefully wend his way through them to hold his John’s hand. And now, looking at him from a distance, Sherlock could see how _old_ John looked, how weathered and lined his face was. _We are both almost sixty,_ Sherlock thought, _and maybe it’s time for us to put this life aside and retire._

He watched John’s chest rise and fall, assisted by the ventilator and fumbled his way back to the chair, sitting down heavily as he reached for John’s hand again.

Six days of no response, six too-quiet nights, and Sherlock felt every millisecond of their separation deep in his bones.

There had been a case. It was always a case. And normally, everything went fine⎯the criminal was apprehended, he and John got a bit of a chase out of it, and then they went back home to cuddle on the sofa while they ate takeaway out of greasy boxes.

But this time, there had been a rooftop and wet tiles and John fighting off the suspect, who had John’s arms in a lock. John managed to twist and knock the man to the ground, but he lost his balance and fell, fingers scrabbling at the wet, slick tiles as he slid inexorably off the side.

Sherlock had arrived just in time to see John’s wide, blue eyes meet his just as John slid over the edge. In that split second, Sherlock saw the _I’m sorry, I love you, it was all worth it_ writ large over John’s face before John disappeared.

Sherlock’s scream of John’s name had rendered him incapable of speaking above a whisper for two days.

And now they were here, in hospital, balancing hope and despair in equal measure. Though John only fell one storey, at his age, it was nearly enough to kill him. The doctors had induced a coma to allow the swelling in his brain to recede. They stopped inducing it almost two full days ago, and John was still showing no signs of waking.

Sherlock could see, sitting there in the darkened hospital room in the small hours of the morning, the long, dark lonely years ahead of him if John died, and the mere thought of having to live for the rest of his life with this choking grief, floating along in a haze as he drifted through an empty life as a shell of himself until he could meet John again was enough to utterly undo him.

And that life was unacceptable. Unfathomable. Unthinkable.

John had to awaken⎯didn’t he know that there were still things Sherlock had to say to him? That there was data Sherlock hadn’t yet collected about him? That there was no end to the things Sherlock needed and wanted to know about him (such as what the wrinkles on John’s face would taste like twenty years from now) and that he had better wake up _right now, dammit_ because Sherlock needed him, he had always needed him, and it wasn’t until he had had to exist (for this was all this was, existing, not living) without John that he finally wholly understood that one vital fact?

If Sherlock lived in a movie, his fervent whispers and wishes would have woken John up. If he lived in a fairytale, the kiss he just pressed to John’s lips would have broken the spell John’s body was holding on itself and he would have woken up.

But this wasn’t a fairytale or a movie, and John remained locked away in himself.

Sherlock bent his head and let it rest on the bed next to John’s shoulder. He slowed his breaths until they matched John’s artificial ones, and finally fell into a fitful doze.

  


Fourteen hours later, John opened his eyes for the first time in almost a week.

Five days more, and a promise to attend thrice-weekly physio appointments to get himself back in working order, John was safely ensconced on their sofa.

Sherlock was pacing tight circles from the sofa to the kitchen and back, bringing John a book, blanket, tea, toast, and finally just pacing empty handed, pulling at his greying hair.

The look of barely-tamped-down panic and deep, abiding sadness in his husband’s eyes made John’s heart stutter. He reached out and barely brushed his hand against Sherlock’s as he passed near him. It was enough to stop Sherlock in his tracks, vibrating like a live wire.

“What is it? What do you need, John?”

“Sit with me?”

Sherlock sank down as if all his strings had been cut and gently, so gently, pushed John over so he could lean back and lay his head on John’s chest and listen to his heart beating steadily under his ear.

John waited patiently, letting Sherlock listen to him as he listened in turn to Sherlock. Sherlock’s shoulders were tense, his heart erratic, breaths quicker than normal. All of these things spoke to John just as much as words. Sherlock was worried, tense and nervous about telling him something. Better to have it out now than let it fester.

“What is it, love?” John asked.

Sherlock pressed his face harder into John’s chest and stayed silent.

“Sherlock,” John said gently.

“I can’t stop seeing it,” Sherlock said finally, slightly muffled by John’s shirt. “You _fell_ John, right in front of me and there was nothing I could do to help you and when I finally got downstairs, you were so still, John. You should never be that still. I thought you had _died_ , that you’d gone and left me behind and you have no idea the relief I felt when I found your pulse.”

They sat in silence for a moment, breathing each other in.

“And then you wouldn’t wake up. They told me you should, after they stopped inducing your coma, but you didn’t for so long.” Sherlock drew in a shuddery breath before he said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what anymore?”

“Watch you get hurt because of me. I’m not worth it⎯I’m not worth you.”

“Sherlock, how can you say that? Do I not get a choice? I will always protect you, even from yourself, and I’ll do it now. You are worth everything. Every pain, every tear, every sleepless night. There is nothing worth more to me than you.”

“John⎯” Sherlock leaned up and kissed him deeply, letting his tongue relearn the shape of John’s mouth.

“What changed?” John asked after they’d broken apart, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s temple.

“Hmmm?”

“I’ve been in hospital before. I’ve come closer than this to dying. What’s different about this one?”

Sherlock swallowed. How could he put into words the sight of John, looking smaller and older than ever on that bed? How could he say that John looked more fragile than ever? That Sherlock had sat there in those long, mostly sleepless nights watching over him like a hawk, waiting for any miniscule sign that he was awakening? That in those nights Sherlock could see John’s mortality staring him in the face and the thought of having to spend one moment away from John any sooner than was necessary was enough to make his heart nearly stop?

The short answer was that he couldn’t say these things to John. He didn’t have the words to convey what all of these things had made him feel.

“John, I can’t, I just⎯I can’t lose you. It would be the end of me.”

“Hey, hey. Hush now. Come here.”

John’s callused thumb brushed away a few stray tears Sherlock hadn’t even known he’d shed.

“Come here, love.” And John gathered him close and rocked him almost imperceptibly.

Sherlock let himself be soothed before he finally gently disentangled himself and said, “I’m going to retire.”

John blinked at him. “When?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

“Sherlock⎯” John paused, considering his next words. “Sherlock, are you sure that’s what you want?”

“John, I can’t bear to see you like that again. I’ve been thinking about retiring for a while now, but this clinches it. We’re too old to be chasing criminals anymore.”

John sighed softly. “All right. But we need to do this slowly, okay? We’re not just going to pack and go to wherever tomorrow. We’ve got to find somewhere to live, or stay here, we need to tie up loose ends. But no more chasing criminals. Let the police do the legwork from now on.”

Sherlock hmmmed his agreement, tracing a nonsense pattern on John’s knees.

“I’ve always fancied taking up beekeeping,” Sherlock said casually.

John smiled down at him. “Fresh honey whenever we wanted it would be nice.”

“Sussex is a good place for beekeeping. I’ve started doing some research.”

John nodded. “So. Sussex and bees. And you and me.”

Sherlock looked up at him, and said, “You and me, raising bees together in Sussex. Sounds perfect.”

John leaned down and kissed his nose and then drew Sherlock closer. “Perfect,” he whispered into Sherlock’s greying curls.

⎯Fin⎯

  



End file.
